There comes a point one sees life as a speck
of fabricated time in ballet shoes.
Thus, poised in arabesque, I stick my neck
out gently, seeking other avenues.
For far too long, I’d let a cloud conceal
the lid through which I knew I’d have to leap.
I’d let too many boxed-up minds congeal
my dance moves. How they love to quash your deep!
But phony guardsmen buried in the holes
they’ve made pretending to protect their flocks
from what they deem as harmful to their souls
can’t be (as they imagine) ‘orthodox’.
I’m now out of my box; that’s what I choose.
It’s easy when there’s nothing left to lose!
© Copyright, Alan Morrison, 2021
[The copyright on my works is merely to protect them from any wanton plagiarism which could result in undesirable changes (as has actually happened!). Readers are free to reproduce my work, so long as it is in the same format and with the exact same content and its origin is acknowledged]